The Riddle in the Ice
by a u r o r a s p a w
Summary: 'I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I touch will soon turn red.' Someone is playing a game with Sherlock and the doctor ... and winning. Sherlock learns about trust and betrayal when he meets a mysterious insurance investigator - and John just wants one good night's sleep. Our favourite Baker Street residents in a chilling winter's tale. Set during season two.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Case of the Unwanted Gifts**

_December 26 2012, 221B Baker Street_

It was the day after Christmas, and Dr John Watson was getting ready to go out. With a strained smile, he pulled on his new gloves. Green, knitted gloves - adorned with an army of dementedly cheerful snowmen.

'You're wearing the gloves then, John.' Mrs Hudson said approvingly, setting down a mug of tea for Sherlock. The elderly landlady gave the doctor an affectionate smile, as he pulled the matching bobble hat over his light brown hair.

The residents of Baker Street were enjoying a quiet winter's evening together. In the warmth of a roaring fire, the freezing December darkness seemed a long way away.

Actually, John Watson and Mrs Hudson were enjoying a quiet winter's evening. Sherlock Holmes - Britain's only consulting detective - was feverishly attempting to replicate a prison assassination. Using the remains of their Christmas turkey.

'Of course he's wearing them.' said Sherlock, squinting at a thigh bone. 'His brown gloves are waiting to be washed - he last wore them when he and Cassandra walked her dog in Regent's Park.' Whilst speaking, the tall, straight-backed detective's attention remained fixed on the bone beneath his microscope.

Holmes continued, 'John foolishly wished to impress Cassandra, leading him to over-affectionately pet her Labrador, despite its eczema. Hence the fact that -,' he finally paused for breath, ' - he's wearing the cheap gloves you originally intended for your nephew.'

In the silence that followed, the ticking of the clock, and the whistling of the icy wind outside could be heard.

Oblivious to the sudden quiet, Holmes sipped his tea whilst scrutinising a small dent where his knife had grazed a bone. Light from the fire played across his face, highlighting his cheekbones.

'No, no, no.' the detective excitedly exclaimed. 'The perpetrator couldn't have used a folding blade! Look at the _evidence_.' he indicated the tableau of dismembered bird, and enough shiny, pointy things to earn him a five-year stretch in Pentonville Prison. Holmes was breathing rapidly, miniature tibia clutched triumphantly between his thumb and forefinger.

Watson and Mrs Hudson exchanged a long glance. The _tick-tock_ of the clock could be heard once more. A log in the fireplace made a crackling, popping sound. Outside the warm living room, a gust of wind rattled the windowpanes.

'Why don't you take him with you love? It'll do him good to get out of the flat.' the landlady said, smiling encouragingly.

'Absolutely impossible, Mrs Hudson. I still have the switch-blades and all of the shivs to test,' Holmes answered, sitting down purposefully at his desk, 'and all my warm jumpers are in the wash,' he added, in a slightly sheepish tone of voice.

'That's no problem love,' Mrs Hudson replied, 'you can wear the one I gave you for Christmas. Here it is! It must have fallen into the bin by accident. I'll just take off the tags for you.'

Sherlock watched helplessly as his landlady bustled off towards the kitchen, cheerfully humming to herself.

'You _did _tell Mycroft you had plans tonight.' John challenged Sherlock.

'Yes, and I do. These are genuine prison shivs - it took my network _three days_ to obtain them.' the detective surveyed the contraptions of melted toothbrush and razor blade with immense satisfaction.

'There we are. _Lovely_.' Mrs Hudson had returned, and was holding the red tartan garment up for inspection. Across the chest, two fluffy cats nuzzled in front of sign labelled: 'The North Pole'.

'_Imogen will be there._' said Watson desperately, as he buttoned up his coat.

'Imogen?' Sherlock's head spun in his friend's direction. He locked his icy blue gaze onto the doctor.

'_Imogen-the-psychiatric-nurse-who-claims-to-have-been-burgled-and-the-perpetrator-only-took-one-diamond-earring-of-a-pair?_' Holmes asked in a single breath, with the gleam of intense curiosity shining in his face.

'The very same,' said Watson, without looking back, as he headed out the door.

Within a minute, Sherlock followed his friend out of the flat, hastily throwing his dark, heavy coat on, over the love-struck felines (who were, in his opinion, risking hypothermia).

Behind him, the door to 221B Baker Street slammed shut, leaving Mrs Hudson to sigh, as she began the washing up.

If you had been listening very carefully, you might have heard her muttering something to herself, above the clinking of the dishes: '_Landlady_, not housekeeper, Sherlock ...'

Thirty seconds later, the detective appeared in the frozen street below, pulling up his coat collar to defend himself from the icy wind.

"Couldn't resist a mystery, then?" Watson asked, stepping out from the shadows beneath the awning of the shop next door. Strangely enough, Mrs Hudson's bobble hat had found its way into his coat pocket.

"_There are no mysteries, John!_" exclaimed Sherlock happily.

Side by side, in fluorescent glow of the street lights, the two men hurried towards Baker Street Station.

. . .

By the time Holmes and Watson arrived at St. John's Wood Station, a fine, powdery snow had coated the streets of London.

Warm light and laughter spilled from restaurants and bars as the two men passed, icy flakes falling gently into their hair.

If it weren't for the litter and the drunken club-goers, the scene would have resembled a Christmas card.

Suddenly a blur of white was hurtling through the air, eliciting an enraged shout from Dr Watson: '_Oi! Who threw that?_' John span around, looking for his assailant.

A large snowball had bounced off his shoulder, rebounded off Sherlock, and was now lying at their feet amidst discarded cigarette butts and plastic pint glasses.

'Bloody kids.' said the doctor with annoyance, as he rubbed his shoulder. 'That really hurt, you know.'

With a last glance around him, Watson continued on towards the Three Gables Public House, nodding to the grumpy-looking bouncer who was attempting to warm his hands by blowing into them. Where he'd exhaled, a cloud of steam briefly hung in the cold night air. Before entering the pub, John looked around for Sherlock.

Holmes stood glued to the spot where the attack had occurred. His hands moved rapidly through the air in bizarre patterns, as he mumbled quietly to himself, eyes flickering to the windows above them and then back to the ground.

'_Impact force._ The impact force of a snowball thirteen centimetres in diameter propelled from a first floor window shouldn't have been enough to make you shout like that John - even though you have a low tolerance for pain.'

Sherlock dropped to the ground and picked up the projectile of packed snow, hastily brushing away its outer layers.

In the street, taxis beeped their horns. A motorcycle sped by with a roar of its engine. Women giggled, as they walked by tipsily, arm-in-arm. A number 82 bus set down its cargo of passengers with the hissing of hydraulics.

City life continued all around the tall, wild-eyed detective scratching away in the dirty snow.

Watson anxiously glanced at his watch, and then gave the bouncer an apologetic, and slightly embarrassed, look. 'I said we'd be there at seven, Sherlock. Can this wait until -'

'_Yes!_ Oh yes, this is interesting.' Holmes sprang up from the ground, clutching the perfect, small sphere of ice that he'd extracted from the centre of the snowball. Frozen inside the glass-like sphere was a small square of paper, bearing a printed message. Sherlock's gaze moved rapidly across the looping script.

Then, without a backwards glance, the detective tossed the object to Watson and strolled into the pub.

'Well don't just stand there,' Holmes called over his shoulder, 'I want to see if Imogen's brought along her florist sister.'

'How did you know - ' began the doctor, feeling the cold from the ice penetrating his woollen gloves.

'Why else would only one earring be taken?' answered Sherlock, as the door closed behind him.

Standing in the street, freezing water soaking into Mrs Hudson's gloves, John read the square of paper:

_I am always hungry,_

_I must always be fed,_

_The finger I touch,_

_Will soon turn red'_

Shivering, he dropped the melting sphere into the gutter, and followed his friend into the noisy pub.

. . .

At the other end of Wellington Road from the Three Gables Pub, a hooded man stopped to catch his breath in a dark alleyway. He was wearing a leather jacket over a baggy sweatshirt, and a scarf covered most of his face. Bending over, he gulped in huge lung-fulls of cold air, and waited for the stitch in his side to subside.

Then he pulled out a phone, removed the leather glove from his right hand, and punched out a text message. When he'd finished, the screen of the cheap pay-as-you-go displayed only two words: _'It's done.'_

With a last, nervous glance over his shoulder, the hooded man pressed _'Send'. _

Then he walked back to the main road, and was soon lost in the London crowds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: The Parrot of the Plains**

_2 January 2013, 221B Baker Street_

It was three in the afternoon and the flat was unusually quiet. No chemistry experiments were bubbling away in the kitchen. No guns were being fired at the walls. Absolutely _no_ violins could be heard.

Sherlock was away, attending a lecture at the Royal Institution. Which left John, peacefully typing his blog in the lovely silence.

Or perhaps not so peacefully...

Taking a break, Watson sipped from a mug of steaming coffee. Then he stretched his arms out above his head, allowing himself a big yawn_. _Then he checked his text messages. Briefly, he considered phoning his sister.

The doctor knew he was procrastinating; he'd been dreading writing this next bit all day.

If you'd been peeking over John's shoulder, you would have seen the title: _A Scandal In Belgravia. _You might also have noticed the doctor blushing, as he struggled to finish the paragraph before him:

'_I stared at the woman in utter surprise.' _John's blog read. '_Though Mycroft had informed us of the nature of her employment, I had not expected Miss Adler to meet us - '_

Watson's blush deepened as he tried out different phrases:

'- in the nude.' _No._ '- without any clothing?' _No._ '- in her birthday suit?' _No, no, no._

The doctor groaned, and rubbed his temples. Then he blushed again, his neck growing hot, as he remembered Mrs Hudson was an avid reader of his blog.

Outside the heated flat, a strong wind rattled the windowpanes. In the street below, office workers bundled up in thick coats scurried around piles of grey slush. The usual roar of London traffic was muted by the date - January 2nd - and the unusually harsh weather.

Shaking off his embarrassment, the sandy-haired doctor began again. He would report the facts of the case, and nothing more:

'_Miss Adler made no attempt to hide her nudity, and, though she was undoubtedly pleasing to behold, I asked her to put on -' _

'No!' Watson exclaimed out loud. That was even _worse_. Pulling at his hair, he deleted the last paragraph.

When the doorbell rang, it was a welcome distraction.

. . .

'So this is where the magic happens?' Kevin - Watson's Australian pet-detective internet friend - surveyed the inside of 221B Baker Street with undisguised curiosity.

'Er, yes.' John replied, following Kevin into the flat, and shutting the door behind them.

In his own blog, the Australian had mentioned something about visiting an aunty in Newcastle over Christmas.

Full of seasonal (brandy-fueled) goodwill, the doctor had invited Kevin to visit, should the pet-detective find himself in London.

Watson hadn't heard back from Kevin, and had completely forgotten about the invitation until that afternoon - when he'd found Kevin on his doorstep, backpack in tow, wiping slush from his shoes with a cheerful grin.

In the living room, the scruffy Australian threw himself down on the sofa, enthusiastically kicking off his wet trainers. The sodden socks beneath soon followed. Looking around, Kevin's face suddenly lit up: 'I recognise that! It's from _The Speckled Blonde,_ right? The false teeth – I'm right mate, aren't I?' the pet-detective jumped up and ambled over to the mantlepiece, feet bare.

'Erm, yes. Shall I put the kettle on?' Watson seemed reluctant to leave the gangly man unsupervised in his living room.

'Whoops, almost dropped it.' The tall Australian fumbled with the dental prosthesis. 'Though it's not like the poor bloke will have any use from them now, is it?' He grinned up at the doctor, who gave a nervous smile in reply.

Kevin turned his attention back to the paint-splattered teeth, before absentmindedly calling out: 'Two sugars, mate! Ta.'

. . .

_One day._

With Sherlock away, John had hoped for just _one day_ of peace.

No mysterious glowing rabbits. No threats from ancient crime syndicates. No criminal masterminds strapping forty kilograms of dynamite to John's chest.

Just a quiet afternoon at the flat, and supper with Cassandra.

Watson had even made a sign to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed:

'_**The Detective is Out**__._

_Apologies for any inconvenience.'_

As the kettle began to whistle, John found himself wishing he'd anticipated this visit from Kevin.

If he had, he'd have worded his sign somewhat less politely.

. . .

'So how's the, er, pet-detecting going?' asked Watson, struggling with the full mugs as he made his way back across the living room.

_'Not bad, mate, not bad.'_ Kevin said, rearranging himself on the comfy sofa. 'Had an African Grey the other day. Beautiful birds. Haven't had time to write it up for the blog yet.' He took a tentative sip of his tea, and – finding it acceptable – followed through with an enthusiastic gulp.

'Up in the Emu Plains. Sister smuggled the parrot out with her home dialysis equipment,' the Australian continued, 'kept it in a locker at Sydney airport for six months. Easy case, really.'

Watson struggled to arrange these words in his brain in a way that made sense. 'I suppose there were ventilation slits? In the locker door?' the doctor glanced towards the mantlepiece, noticing his visitor had failed to replace the nail-clippers from the _Green Baroness_ case. Ah, there they were - on the coffee table.

'What? Oh, no. They're pretty much airtight nowadays.' The Australian replied, shaking his tousled blonde hair out of his eyes.

John wrinkled his forehead in bewilderment. 'Your client must have been upset...' he said, trying to stop himself from wincing as Kevin rested his bare feet on the coffee table. On top of the latest _British Journal of Trauma Surgery._

'Actually she gave me a bonus. Said it was great to have Beaky back. Has to use a stick to prop the bird up though – wing was broken in the police chase.' the Australian replied good-naturedly.

A flash of insight illuminated the inside of John's cranium.

'The parrot was stuffed? I mean it had, erm, been attended to by a taxidermist?' he asked.

Kevin looked up at Watson as if the doctor had lost his marbles. 'Well you couldn't keep a live bird at the airport, could you? It'd be unhygienic.'

For a while they sat without speaking, each man sipping tea in silence. The central heating clicked on, followed by the low hum of the boiler.

Then the scruffy Australian focused his attention on Watson, as if something of great importance had just entered his mind: 'I don't mean to be cheeky mate, but are there any biscuits?' he asked the doctor.

John blinked whilst deciding how to reply. This was the trouble with the internet, thought Watson. For the past year John and Kevin, Barangaroo's most famous (and possibly only) pet detective, had kept up a friendly on-line correspondence.

Watson had enjoyed reading about _Hydrochoerus Hydrochaeris_, and about paternity suits within Sydney's lizard-breeding community. For some reason it made a nice change from the more sinister cases John himself blogged about.

Kevin had seemed so _different_ in his blog and messages. So, well… what's the word for '_not-a-complete-tosser'_?

'Mrs Hudson usually has some. I could pop down if you...' Watson trailed off, waiting to be reassured that he needn't bother.

'Ta, that'd be great. Can't have a cuppa without biscuits,' said Kevin, with a friendly grin, 'custard creams if you've got 'em!'

. . .

_'Maybe it's something about me.' _thought John, as he descended the stairs to Mrs Hudson's. _'Tall, rude detectives with zero social skills are drawn to me from all corners of the globe.' _The fifth stair from the bottom creaked loudly, interrupting his thoughts.

John shook his head, and tried to remember a better way of saying 'stark naked', than 'stark naked'. Before he knew it, he was standing outside 221A Baker Street.

As Watson lifted a hand to knock, the door swung open - revealing a surprised looking landlady.

'Oh, John! How's the writing going? I was just coming up to dust.' Mrs Hudson exclaimed, sounding pleased.

'Mrs Hudson,' said Watson, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek, 'got any of those biscuits left?

. . .

Two miles away, a security guard glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost time for his cigarette break. And while he was out, well, he might as well pop to the shop for a scratch card… or two. It would relax him - and God knows his luck was due for a change. He hummed happily to himself, remembering the envelope of cash that had landed through his front door last week. It would soon be joined by another, equally fat envelope.

A vibration against the guard's leg startled him from these pleasant thoughts; it was his second phone, the pay-as-you-go that had arrived with the cash last week. With a pounding heart, he shiftily glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

No one had. Un-tensing his muscles, he tried to slow his breathing and bring his heart-rate back to normal. Then he opened the incoming text message.

Only two words were displayed on the screen. But they made the blood pound in his ears, and his palms begin to sweat.

Only two words: _'This evening.'_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: A Study in Scarlet … and Yellow**

_2 January 2013, 221B Baker Street_

'We've been burgled,' said Holmes, exactly eight seconds after stepping across the threshold of the apartment.

It was a quarter past seven in the evening, and Sherlock had just returned from the Royal Institution. He stood, rigid, surveying the scene in the living room; his brown, wavy hair was damp from the January sleet.

'We've been what?' Watson asked, appearing in the hallway. After Kevin left, John had found several other tasks to keep him occupied (including re-arranging his sock drawer), instead of blogging about Miss Adler. Underneath his stripy dressing gown, the doctor was fresh from the shower. His light-brown hair was sticking out in a multitude of directions - evidently he'd just been drying it. From the shower-room, the soothing scent of _ylang-ylang_ drifted down to the two housemates.

'The thief is male, right-handed and dyes his hair.' Holmes spoke without pausing for breath, cool blue eyes flickering from sofa to desk, and back to Watson, where they rested. His silhouette was framed in the living room doorway by the hall light.

'Our thief sent you on an errand. To retrieve something he knew you were unlikely to keep in the flat,' Sherlock's gaze landed on a pile of crumbs on the sofa, 'biscuits – custard creams,' he added. In one fluid motion, the detective drew a folding magnifier from his trouser pocket and began inspecting the dim room.

'This was his first visit.' Sherlock continued. 'A casual acquaintance, possibly from out of town, but probably from abroad - why are you waving the nail-clippers from the _Green Baroness_ case in my face, John?'

'They're right here, Sherlock,' said Watson, 'he didn't steal them, he moved them. They were on the coffee table. You need to stop thinking the worst of people,' Watson admonished his friend.

'They were moved to create a diversion. To draw the attention of lesser intellects.' The detective said absent-mindedly, tossing the nail-clippers in the direction of the sofa. They landed on the floor with a CLUNK_._

John opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by his housemate's extended finger, directing his attention to the center of the room. 'Tell me what you see John!' commanded Sherlock.

The doctor sighed. His patience was wearing awfully thin. Reluctantly, he turned to survey the room. 'Nothing. I don't see anything. Now you're going to tell me that I'm wrong, and -'

_'Correct. _We see nothing. _Observe_.' Sherlock ordered, reaching behind himself to slam the living room door shut with a BANG.

They were instantly plunged into darkness. Only the glow of the city lights outside allowed them to see each other.

'Could you please turn the light on Sherlock - I can barely see a_ thing,_' said Watson, with more than a small amount of irritation. Despite the central heating, he was feeling chilly beneath his damp dressing gown.

'Exactly. _Oh this is exciting,_' the wavy-haired detective enthused, flicking on the light switch.

Nothing happened. The room remained bathed in shadows, until Holmes threw open the door again, illuminating them with light from the hall.

_'The snowball Watson - it's obvious!'_ There was an excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes, as he skipped over to the lamp, and began rapidly flicking the switch on and off.

Once again, nothing happened. No welcoming light emitted from beneath the faded chintz lampshade.

The detective turned the lampstand on its side, sending a cascade of dust into the air.

Where the bulb should have sat was an empty socket.

'It's a message, John, a riddle! He's taken our lightbulbs!' Sherlock said, spinning around to face the doctor, before continuing: '_What did it say? _The snowball, _what was the message_?'

John struggled to recall the words frozen into the ice. 'Something about being hungry and needing to eat_,' _the doctor answered testily, 'which reminds me, I'm due at Cassandra's for supper in - '

Sherlock had begun to pace the floor rapidly. '_I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I touch, will soon turn red,' _he recited to himself, his voice almost a whisper. It was hard for Watson to see his flatmate's expression in the gloomy room.

'_Fire_, the answer is _fire_.' said Holmes. 'The answer to the riddle is the _opposite of__how it was conveyed -_ the opposite of ice. Oh, this is _fun_.'

The detective stopped pacing, noticing the mixture of bewilderment, exasperation and grudging admiration on his friend's face. This wasn't the first time he'd seen it. (Oddly enough, it was often followed by the offer of a punch to the nose. Normal people could be so _difficult_.)

'Look for the _riddle _John!' Holmes ordered, wrenching the lampshade from its stand, turning it upside-down, and feverishly shaking it - looking for a concealed message.

'Can we please go back a step, Sherlock. _Why would Kevin steal our lightbulbs?_ And what does that have to do with - ' Watson's voice was beginning to rise in irritation.

'_It has to be here …_ ' the detective pushed past John, on his way to grab his desk chair. He then proceeded to carry it to the middle of the room, where he set it down, beneath the empty ceiling lampshade. With a hop, he climbed up onto the dangerously creaking piece of furniture, and began to scrutinise the thin paper lampshade - former home to a 60 watt bulb.

'_Nothing!_' Holmes exclaimed in frustration. He looked down at Watson, breathless from exertion. The slender detective's eyes began darting around the gloomy living room, his lips moving silently. Suddenly, as if frozen to the spot, Sherlock's body became absolutely still. He jumped off the chair, strode over to the window, and pulled the curtains shut with great force. Now that no light from the street could enter, the room was even darker.

_'Close the door John!_' the detective called over his shoulder. Behind him he heard a CLICK as his friend complied. The two of them were plunged into blackness. _'Look for something we can only see in the dark!' _said Sherlock.

By now, Britain's only consulting detective had dropped to all fours, and was scuttling around the floorboards, like a very large crab.

_'Not here,_' Holmes spoke with annoyance, his voice muffled. Removing his head from beneath the desk, he began crawling towards the sofa.

'Yes!' Sherlock exclaimed mid-shuffle. 'John,' he whipped his head around to address the doctor, '_what do you smell?_'

John didn't answer. 'I'll be in my room Sherlock,' said Watson, pulling open the living room door. 'Getting ready for my supper date - which I'll probably be late for.' Everything in the doctor's body language expressed intense irritation.

Holmes sprang up from his position on the floor, crossed the living room in three paces, took hold of his friend's wrist - and dragged him in the opposite direction.

_'The rug John - smell the rug!_' the detective commanded with urgency, as he struggled with a very cross looking Dr Watson.

Sherlock let go of his flatmate abruptly when they reached the worn sheepskin - causing Watson to lose his footing, and almost topple over onto his backside.

By the time the doctor had righted himself, Sherlock was down on the floor once more - his nose buried in the grubby rug.

With a sigh of exasperation, Watson slowly lowered himself to the ground. Bending over, he sniffed the air once. 'I don't smell anything Sherlock,' he said, voice stiff with annoyance.

'Smell the _rug_!' Holmes' hand shot out, pushing his friend's head face-down into the sheepskin.

'Mumble-mumble-Sherlock!' the doctor gasped for breath, picking fluffy strands from his mouth.

_'_Volatile hydrocarbons – n-butane and isobutane. DME - Dimethyl ether … Probably an aerosol deodorant.' Holmes spoke rapidly, rubbing a strand of wool between his thumb and forefinger, and inhaling deeply.

Watson almost shouted at his friend: 'So Kevin used deodorant while I was at Mrs Hudson's. He said he took the sleeper coach down from Newcastle. He probably didn't get a shower this morning. And if he _is_ a kleptomaniac pet-detective, _and I'm skeptical_, and all he took was our lightbulbs, we should be -'

Ignoring his friend's speech, Holmes jumped to his feet, and began scrambling through his desk drawers. The thrill of anticipation was visible in his body language, and the dim hall light cast a long shadow onto the wall behind the detective.

_'Oh no_, Sherlock. _No_.' said John, with barely suppressed panic in his voice, as he sprang to his feet and ran to his flatmate (stopping to cough up several woolly fibres along the way).

The detective's fingers clasped around the cool object he had been searching for, and he purposefully strode back to the rug. Holding off the doctor with his left hand, he used his right to flick the steel cigarette lighter on.

In the bright flame, the two friends were briefly illuminated.

Then, before Watson could stop him, the detective dropped the burning cigarette lighter onto the sheepskin.

The flame caught the thickly sprayed aerosol in the rug. There was a soft _whoosh, _and, for a second, a blindingly bright message burned clear and beautiful in the darkness:

_'The more you have of me,_

_The less you see.'_

And then it was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: The Five Visitors**

Then the riddle was gone, replaced by a chaotic kaleidoscope of reds and yellows, as the entire rug caught fire. Above them, the smoke alarm began to screech.

'Help me Sherlock!' Watson screamed - he was attempting to stamp out the flames in his flimsy bedroom slippers.

'The answer to the riddle is _darkness _- the _opposite _of the _medium of delivery! _Oh this is _good_.' Holmes stood, statue-like, in the glow of the dancing flames. Lost in his own world, he seemed oblivious to the rapidly spreading blaze and billowing smoke.

Above the bleating of the alarm, a pounding knock could be heard.

'Boys? _Is everything alright in there? _You haven't been smoking again Sherlock, have you?' Mrs Hudson's worried voice was almost drowned out by the cries of 'ooh' and 'ouch' issuing from Watson, as he struggled to roll up the sheepskin without scorching his fingers. Wispy strands of glowing wool floated in the darkness.

'_Help me, you -' _a stream of accusations left the doctor's mouth, joining the din of the fire alarm.

Blinking once, Holmes turned on his heel - and promptly left the room. Striding out of the flat, he pushed passed a concerned Mrs Hudson on the doorstep. 'Sherlock?' the landlady asked Holmes' disappearing back. With an anxious frown, she entered the apartment through the open door.

The tirade from the put-upon doctor that followed Sherlock's exit was difficult to hear above the beeping alarm. If you had been standing very close to Watson, you might have made out the words: 'Sherlock', 'can't take' and 'anymore'.

After what felt like an eternity (and was, in fact, a little over a minute) John finished rolling the smouldering rug into a tight cylinder. He then stomped on it, several times, for good measure.

During this time, Mrs Hudson had unsuccessfully been trying to attract John's attention from the living room doorway. As Watson gave the rug a final stomp, his landlady mouthed something inaudible, and walked towards the kitchen.

Presumably she was thanking him for bravely putting out the fire, John thought. She was probably making him a cup of tea right now.

Breathing a sigh of relief, and wiping sweat from his face with one sooty hand, the doctor collapsed onto the sofa. The adrenaline rush from the blaze was beginning to subside. Closing his eyes wearily, Watson leaned back into the cushions and took his own pulse. Predictably enough, it was still racing. The alarm continued to sound above him.

'_Just … one … peaceful … day_.' Watson murmured to himself, his body spasming with a coughing fit from the lingering smoke. Flopping back down on the sofa, the doctor attempted to gather the energy to open the windows. Before he could muster the motivation to lift his eyelids up, the front door of the flat burst open.

Sherlock had returned: breathing heavily, bedraggled and wet from the freezing sleet outside, and brandishing a large, red, fire extinguisher.

On his heels was an angry looking man in a smart suit: '_...breaking and entering! The police have been called,' _the suited man's bleating, nasal whine added to the cacopony. In the distance, the rising sound of sirens could be heard.

Then Mrs Hudson returned from the kitchen, screaming something unintelligible. Instead of a cup of tea, she was carrying the washing-up basin; it sloshed soapy water onto the carpet.

Watson stood to address his housemate: 'I put it out Sherlock. _No thanks to you_- ' with some confusion (and wrinkling of his sweaty, soot-smudged brow) the doctor took in the presence of the unnamed man.

Without stopping to reply, Holmes pulled Watson up from the sofa with his left hand, and pulled the pin from the top of the fire extinguisher with his right.

Behind John's head, shimmering flames were rising from a smouldering stack of newspaper; a strand of burning wool had landed in the fat pile - kindling them like tinder.

_'- behind you, John!' _Mrs Hudson finished shouting, getting ready to throw the contents of the washing-up basin.

Sherlock aimed the hose of the extinguisher, and a blanket of foam covered the fire - causing it to splutter and die.

Where seconds ago bright flames had burned, sodden, blackened pieces of newspaper now floated in a spreading puddle of foam.

In the doorway, the suited man had stopped his diatribe. 'You know, you could just have asked if you wanted the fire extinguisher,' he said, somewhat apologetically. Slicking back his floppy hair, he gave the detective a reproachful look. 'You didn't have to _barge in _like that.'

Coughing into the hanky she kept up her sleeve, Mrs Hudson placed the washing-up basin onto the carpet beside the sofa.

Above them, the alarm stopped in mid-beep.

This meant that Watson, Holmes and their landlady (and the suited man with floppy hair) could now hear heavy bootsteps on the stairs outside.

From the other side of the window came a loud THWACK, as a ladder from a fire engine hit the side of the building. Even through the thick curtains, flashing blue lights were visible.

'It's alright love, Sherlock's put it out,' Mrs Hudson informed a burly fireman, who had just rushed through the open door to their apartment. 'Ever so sorry for making you come out in this weather,' the landlady added kindly.

'Fire's out. You gentlemen can leave.' said Holmes, his gaze flicking towards the newcomer for the merest fraction of a second.

An embarrassed Watson winced slightly, but the large fireman seemed indifferent to the detective's customary rudeness. 'You need to evacuate the building,' he said gruffly, eying the charred roll of rug, and the soggy mess on John's desk. '_All of you,' _he added, fixing Sherlock with an authoritative glare.

Holmes returned the fireman's stare, and opened his mouth to issue a scathing reply - but was promptly interrupted by a familiar voice.

'_Police! _Here for Mr Holmes,' a gruff baritone drifted up the stairs, through the open door of 221B Baker Street. Below them, there seemed to be a disagreement: apparently, the fire brigade were reluctant to allow _anyone _to enter_ -_ even London Metropolitan's finest.

'I'm expecting a guest. You can see yourself out.' the detective dismissively informed the beefy fireman.

Still in his striped bathrobe (now decorated with a fetching pattern of burn-marks), John wracked his brains for something - _anything - _he could say to improve the situation.

'_Everyone _out,' repeated the fireman over his shoulder, as he steered Mrs Hudson through the living room door by her thin shoulders.

From the hallway, a nasal whine could be heard once more: 'I just want to make sure I'm compensated for the fire extinguisher - they're not cheap, you know!'

Below the flat, raised voices quarrelled on the stairs. The police seemed to be winning: their speech was growing louder as they moved closer to the apartment.

'Police!' Detective Inspector Lestrade strode through the open door, brandishing his identification card before him. At his side, looking as if she'd just been sucking on a lemon, was Sergeant Sally Donovan.

'I'm sorry sir, ma'am - we're evacuating this building,' the fireman informed the new arrivals.

Behind them, the floppy-haired man (whose name was Henry) interrupted: 'Gosh, that was quick. I only rang a few minutes ago,' he told Lestrade. 'As I said on the phone, all he took was the fire extinguisher - but it was a nasty shock, and gave _quite _the wrong impression to our clients -'

Ignoring Henry (who was a partner in the self-proclaimed 'Luxury' Estate Agents next door) Detective Inspector Lestrade focused his attention on Holmes. 'There's been a … theft.' he said simply, his even tone betraying no hint of emotion.

'_Yes, he just barged into my office, and -' _Henry began pompously. Sergeant Donovan spoke into the suited man's ear, causing him to trail off, mid-sentence.

'Continue,' Sherlock addressed Lestrade as if the two of them were alone.

'Not here,' the grey-haired Detective Inspector quickly took in the mayhem around them, 'you need to see it for yourself.'

Without another word, Holmes followed Lestrade out of the flat.

There was a moment of silence as the pair departed. Then a babble of voices erupted.

Watson sank wearily down into the sofa, which was soggy with foam from the fire extinguisher. A glance at the clock told him he was late for his supper date.

The doctor's freshly washed hair was now coated with flakes of charred newspaper, and he'd lost one of his slippers putting out the flaming rug.

Outside, the sleet had turned into a heavy rain, which drummed against the windows mercilessly.

With a sigh, Watson stood up - and, with a squelching sound, promptly stepped into the full washing-up basin with his one remaining slipper.

John closed his eyes in exhaustion. '_Just. One. Peaceful. Day.' _he groaned to himself.

Was that too much to ask for?


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **A big thank you to the following lovely people for their reviews and faves/follows:**  
**

**Neely1, Pocket Full of Pens, EliteNinja07, jessecreed, GeorgyannWayson, dragonpoos, jchristi22, Artemis-Max-Katniss-Holmes and Randomrevolution123**

It really means a lot that you took the time to review and fave/follow! :-D**  
**

**Chapter Five: The Adventure of the Beryl Hornet's Nest **

_20:20, Thursday 2nd of January 2013, London_

The unmarked police car glided through the icy rain; it carried a silent Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes along the city streets. Rain drummed against the roof and sides of the Volvo; through the windscreen, London was a blur of multicolored lights against an inky backdrop.

At the intersection of Baker Street and George Street, traffic caused the police car to slow to a crawl. With an irritated noise, Lestrade changed into first gear. After a pause, he cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to begin briefing Holmes on the case.

Sherlock spoke rapidly, before Greg could begin: 'The stolen item isn't just valuable - it's well-known to the public.' The consulting detective gazed out of the passenger-side window as he spoke; his expression was one of mild boredom.

'Though the victims of the theft possess a high level of influence, there is no risk to national security.' Sherlock added, without turning away from the window. There was a spreading circle of steam in the spot where his breath had landed on the glass.

Now Holmes turned to face Lestrade, and said: 'The perpetrator used fire to facilitate the crime. It's probable that he left a message; directing you to me.' For the first time since they'd left the flat, a flicker of intense emotion crossed Holmes' face. It might have been sharp curiosity, but it passed too quickly for Greg to gauge it.

As the Detective Inspector opened his mouth to reply, the driver of a black cab behind them beeped his horn loudly. The road in front had cleared. Lestrade quickly changed gears, whilst pressing his foot down on the accelerator. The two detectives drifted down Baker Street in the heavy rain, picking up speed as they went.

'You heard of Croesus'?' Lestrade asked gruffly. They came to a stop at a red light, next to Selfridge's department store. No answer was forthcoming, and the grey-haired Detective Inspector glanced at Sherlock to make sure that he had heard.

Holmes was staring out of the car window. Even through the misty glass and streaming rain water, the Selfridge's Christmas display was visible. In its center sat a giant, sparkly red shoe, stuffed with extravagantly wrapped presents. Surrounding this center-piece were beautiful, eye-wateringly expensive, shoes of every colour. Gold and platinum jewelery twinkled from the branches of tiny silver fir trees. The whole tableau was lit up like a stage set.

In a doorway of the department store, a weary looking homeless man paused for a moment, eager to be out of the rain. At his side a skinny, very wet dog made a sad little whining sound, which was drowned out by the hum of traffic.

When Sherlock spoke, his tone was acidic: 'Croesus', the international auction house - where oligarchs who've looted their own countries compete to buy artifacts looted from other people's countries?' A flicker of fierce emotion played across his features; this time Lestrade could read it plainly.

After a while the light turned green, and they moved on.

Pushing his dark, wavy hair from his forehead, Sherlock continued; his tone now flat: 'Founded in 1754, Croesus' have branches in Dubai, Monte Carlo, New York and Shanghai.' All traces of intense feeling were gone from Holmes' face, replaced by his customary expression of contempt for the world. Focusing his attention outside of the car, Sherlock took in the shop names and door numbers; he quickly checked them against his mental database.

'The theft you're investigating took place at the London, South Kensington branch - which were are now, I believe, en route to.' Sherlock absentmindedly said to the window. The consulting detective seemed to be tiring of Lestrade or the conversation. Or possibly both.

They arrived at the junction of Baker Street and Oxford Street, and Greg now turned the car right sharply, so that they were traveling in the direction of Hyde Park.

The Detective Inspector had long ago given up trying to follow, or even understand, Sherlock's thought processes. And as for Holmes' mood swings… Lestrade shook his head. He doubted he would ever fathom what it was like inside that brain of Sherlock's.

'It's a Damien Hirst - the stolen piece of art.' Greg Lestrade began, in his gruff baritone. 'It was expected to sell for fourteen mil'... at _least…'_ Lestrade continued. Abruptly, he slammed his foot onto the brake pedal, skidding to avoid a pedestrian. The jaywalking woman wrestled with an umbrella in the middle of the road; every time she managed to right it, the wind blew it inside-out again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, at what he perceived to be yet another example of garden-variety idiocy. Behind the unmarked Volvo, several cars beeped their horns in annoyance.

'It was expected to sell for fourteen mil'.' Greg repeated. Ignoring the cars behind him, he carefully put the Volvo into first gear, and gently accelerated. As they gathered speed, Lestrade brought a Samsung phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

'The pin number is-' began Lestrade.

'-your eldest son's birthday.' finished Holmes dismissively, as he entered the last digit. 'I assume this is the stolen piece of art?' Sherlock asked rhetorically, his gaze flicking across the image displayed on the screen of the Samsung.

The Detective Inspector briefly consulted the phone in Sherlock's hand. 'Er, no,' Lestrade answered awkwardly. 'That's a crime scene photograph. From a hit-and-run.' he added sadly. 'Poor hedgehog. Never saw that heavy goods vehicle coming.'

The unmarked police car stopped at a red light, and Greg took the phone from Sherlock with his left hand. Jabbing the screen with his thumb, he opened an email attachment: it was an image of the missing Damien Hirst. 'It's his most talked about work since _Shark in Formaldehyde.' _Lestrade explained, turning the car left, onto Park Lane, where a red light stalled them once more.

Tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Lestrade continued: 'The thief was clever. The security at the auction house is _tight - _photo-electric beam sensors, infrared motion detectors, glass-break detectors - the works. There's only one way they could get in, and that's-'

'-social engineering.' Sherlock finished for Lestrade. 'Exploiting the weakest link in the chain: people.' Holmes' clear blue eyes focused coolly on Lestrade as he spoke. 'Manipulate the so-called security professionals, and a thief can walk right in - and out - with whatever he can carry.'

Lestrade felt a prick of extreme irritation: Holmes tended to have that effect on people. The Detective Inspector knew Sherlock's conclusion was correct - but that didn't stop him from getting on Lestrade's nerves. Maybe because Holmes never seemed to realise how annoying his interruptions, and his... _bloody arrogant_ tone of voice, were. Or - and this was equally likely - Sherlock just didn't care.

'There's a second attachment...' Lestrade said out loud. 'Go back to the original email-', he glanced toward the screen of his Samsung, '-that's it.'

Sherlock clicked the link to download the second attachment. After a few moments an image popped up; it showed the charred remnants of an empty, paper thin hornet's nest. The few patches of nest untouched by flames were decorated with rainbow swirls of paint. Golden beryls peeked out from tiny, long-deserted hexagonal tunnels.

'That piece of art was called _Exodus Twenty-Three.' _Lestrade explained. 'Also a Hirst. It was on display in gallery B, next to the stolen work.'

Sherlock zoomed into the image; the machinery in his mind clicked and whirred, as he processed the clues in the photograph. 'The thief put an incendiary device inside the nest.' said Sherlock to Lestrade, as he handed back the phone. 'Containing a timer. When it ignited, the smoke triggered an automatic call to the fire brigade.' Holmes was speaking at a rapid pace. 'The perpetrator-'

'-entered the auction house dressed as a fireman...' now it was Greg who interrupted Sherlock.

'...and manipulated the security guard into disabling the alarms. Probably by claiming he needed access to the gallery to put out the blaze.' added Sherlock.

'And when the real fire brigade arrived, our burglar was gone.' said Lestrade, sliding the gear stick into neutral, as they joined a long queue of traffic. 'He was wearing a pack, like the breathing apparatus a real firefighter carries. That's how he got the Hirst out.' finished Greg Lestrade.

Holmes and Lestrade both fell silent as the car passed the white marble facade of the Park Lane Grosvenor House Hotel. Above the imposing entrance, five flags were whipping about wildly in the howling wind. England, Scotland, Wales, the United Kingdom, and the European Union were all represented; the soggy canvas rectangles seemed in danger of being blown away by the storm.

Below the flags stood a uniformed doorman. Dwarfed by the scale of the building, he surreptitiously blew into his bare, cupped hands to warm them.

A Range Rover with tinted windows pulled up outside the hotel, prompting the doorman to sprint across the marble courtyard towards the disembarking guests and their immaculately groomed Shih Tzu. A glass roof jutted out from the building, shielding them from the downpour.

Sherlock ignored the scene: he had seemingly lost interest in both the view, and Lestrade. The consulting detective was busy scanning through his mental database of art heists - his eyes were flicking rapidly back and forth as he thought. One eyebrow rose slightly: now he was scrolling through a list of fences: men and women who might be approached by the thief in the coming days.

'Anything else?' Holmes asked Greg Lestrade distractedly.

'One more thing.' Lestrade answered. 'It wasn't the thief who asked for you -', the Detective Inspector glanced over at Holmes, before continuing: '- it was Stephanie Baker. She's at the scene now - and wants to use you as an "expert" advisor.'

Sherlock suddenly sat up very straight in the passenger seat. For the first time since they'd left the flat, he seemed genuinely interested in what Lestrade had to say. '_The _Stephanie Baker?' asked Holmes, turning to face the Detective Inspector.

'Boyyds Bank are the insurers,' replied Greg Lestrade, 'and with something like this, they're not gonna mess about - they want the best. Or rather, they want the investigator with highest recovery rate -', the grey-haired Detective Inspector spoke with disapproval, '- and they're not fussed about the details.'

'She asked for _me_.' said Sherlock quietly, sounding both pleased and unsurprised. He was staring through the windscreen into the distance, and there was a small smile on his face.

For a while, the two detectives drove in silence through the darkness.

Lestrade spoke at last, in his gravelly voice: 'You don't want to sound too satisfied with yourself... remember what happened to the last "expert" to work with Stephanie Baker. Poor sod.' He shook his head sympathetically.

In the passenger seat, Sherlock had withdrawn inside of himself. Occasionally he mumbled something, before gesturing wildly in the air, or consulting his smartphone with urgency. Every now and then he demanded information from Lestrade: names of auction house employees, the age of their children... and whether any of the security guards had ever lived in Holland. When the Detective Inspector answered, Sherlock responded with the merest nod of acknowledgment, and immediately returned to his own thoughts.

Lestrade turned right at Hyde Park corner. He did nothing to disturb Holmes, having learned from experience that it was usually worth while to let Sherlock do… well, w_hatever it was that he did,_ in peace.

The police car followed the road into Knightsbridge. Inside the Volvo, the air was warm and humid. Outside, the rain continued to wash the streets of London clean, falling on both rich and poor alike.

Though the rich were more likely to own umbrellas, thought Lestrade wryly, as he turned the car onto Hans Road.

In front of them, in the same spot that it had stood for almost two-hundred and sixty years, was Croesus' auction house.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **A big thank you to **Millymargie **for the new follow, and to **Neely1, Pocket Full of Pens, EliteNinja07, jessecreed, GeorgyannWayson, dragonpoos, jchristi22, Artemis-Max-Katniss-Holmes and Randomrevolution123 **for the continued support. :-D

**Chapter 6: The Adventure of the Auction House**

_20:50, January 2, 2013, Hans Road, London, SW3_

If Holmes or Lestrade had been expecting a swarm of activity at Croesus', they would have been disappointed.

Despite the late hour, it was business as usual. A well-dressed couple were leaving the auction house; pausing under the royal blue awning, they laughed as they buttoned up their coats and pulled on their gloves. With a brief, puzzled glance at the grim-faced Lestrade (and at Holmes, who was sporting his usual expression of disdain for, well, _everything_), the well-dressed man and woman walked off in the direction of Knightsbridge - happily sharing an umbrella.

Here, beneath the gold-lettered Croesus' sign, nothing seemed amiss.

'No barrier tape.' Sherlock noted, following Lestrade around the building to the rear entrance. Apart from an unmarked police car parked on a double yellow line, they passed nothing out of the ordinary.

At the back of the building, a plainclothes officer was taking a statement from a security guard; the guard's arms were crossed in front of himself defensively. As Holmes and Lestrade approached, the plainclothes officer anxiously glanced towards the sound of their footsteps. Greg Lestrade flashed his ID card, and the officer visibly relaxed.

'Whoever's in charge doesn't want word of the theft getting out.' Sherlock spoke rapidly, his gaze flicking from the tan-mark on the ring finger of the guard's trembling left hand, to the tar stains between his right index and middle fingers. Underneath the fingernail of his right index finger was a silvery-grey residue. 'They'll avoid making a statement for as long as possible - hoping the Hirst is recovered before the auction.' continued Holmes, his attention still fixed on the security guard.

The two detectives stood under a surveillance camera in front of Croesus' staff entrance, and waited to be admitted. When at last they were buzzed in, they found themselves in a narrow corridor: the floor was a faded, black-and-white checkered vinyl, and there was a rickety-looking wooden table in the corner. It was a world away from the plush decor of the front entrance.

Lestrade nodded to a well-groomed man at the other end of the corridor, who smiled and nodded back; he was engaged in an intense, hushed discussion with an extremely tan blonde woman.

'Croesus' are opening a branch in St. Petersburg on Monday - there's a big media campaign in the works. Obviously, they don't want the papers finding out their flagship house just lost a fourteen million pound piece.' Lestrade told Sherlock, in a low voice, before popping a mint into his mouth. He nodded to the well-groomed man: 'That's Julian Chang - the manager of Croesus', the Detective Inspector informed Sherlock, under his breath. Mr Chang and the blonde woman were now walking over to Holmes and Lestrade.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mr Holmes, I believe,', the manager shook Sherlock's stiff hand warmly, 'may I introduce Ms Carol Meenpenny, of Boyyd's Bank.' Chang had a friendly, welcoming manner. Usually it put clients at ease - but it did little to melt the tension in the air that evening.

Ms Meenpenny ignored Holmes, and coolly looked Lestrade up and down before speaking: 'We have, of course, engaged our own investigator… one who has had _excellent _results in the past. I do hope your team will allow her the space, and the resources, to work. I'd appreciate it if you would allow her access to the forensics report, for example.'

Detective Inspector Lestrade hesitated, and then answered in a low, rough voice: 'She has the right to investigate whatever she wants, as long as she follows the law. As does any other member of the public. As for the forensics report... your investigator will have to put in a request through official channels. As any other private citizen would.' Lestrade crunched his mint between his teeth.

A flush of anger coloured Ms Meenpenny's smooth, tanned face; though she was frowning, there were no creases on her forehead. When she spoke again, her voice was tight and cross: 'As I've already informed your supervising officer, we expect twice-daily reports… and I'd appreciate it if you'd copy Stephanie in.' the blonde woman nodded a brisk goodbye and turned to leave - before swinging back to face them once more. 'The quicker you recover the Hirst, the better it is for _all _of us_. _I hope you don't forget that.' added Ms Meenpenny, her gaze seeming to linger on Julian Chang.

As the representative from Boyyd's departed, a smartly dressed young man ran up to the manager and urgently whispered something into his ear. Mr Chang replied to the young man with an encouraging smile: 'Please offer them drinks, in the Morten gallery. And ask Sylvia to show them the new Mondrian. I'll be there as soon as possible, Nicholas.' The young man nodded, and scurried away purposefully.

'One of our most valued collectors has just arrived. If you gentlemen don't mind, we'll make this brief.' said Mr Chang, with an apologetic smile, as he led Holmes and Lestrade down the narrow corridor.

Along the way, the manager expeditiously pointed out various things to the two detectives: a door to the auction room; the jewellery gallery, and the control room staffed by security guards around the clock.

'You're open seven days a week?' Sherlock brusquely asked Mr Chang, as they climbed the back staircase to gallery B.

'Twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.' replied the manager with pride. 'That's what sets us apart from our competitors -', Mr Chang continued enthusiastically, '-we understand that today's high-net worth individuals don't want to worry about things like opening hours...' The manager had a friendly, round face, with very well-groomed eyebrows. In their chunky, designer frames, his glasses had been polished until they gleamed, and his nails were discretely manicured. Sherlock noticed that his suit was bespoke, and his Paul Smith Brogue's were new season.

'There's just one formality before I show you the… _scene of the crime_.' Mr Chang said. He seemed uncomfortable speaking about something as vulgar as a burglary. 'I understand that you are not, technically, a member of the police, Mr Holmes?' he looked towards Sherlock, and politely waited for an answer.

Lestrade jumped in, before Holmes could speak. 'No, he's an… independent consultant. Sherlock's been a-', Lestrade made a strangled coughing noise, '-_great asset_ to the force over the years... he's trusted by myself and-', there was another strangled cough, '-_all of my colleagues_.'

'Yes, yes, I quite follow.' the manager smiled, and nodded genially. 'However, in these situations, it's quite standard to ask for an… agreement of confidentiality. Mr Chang frowned briefly, as he picked up a tiny, crumpled ball of paper from the floor. Flicking it into a nearby waste-bin, he continued: 'I am sure you understand, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock opened his mouth. He was about to caustically advise the manager to look to his own staff (one of whom was likely to be a gambling addict, Sherlock had noticed) if he wanted to prevent leaks. However, Lestrade stepped down hard on Sherlock's foot before the consulting detective could begin.

'He'll be happy to.' answered the Detective Inspector. Whispering to Holmes, he added: 'he's right, it _is_ standard when you're dealing with something like this. Don't push your luck, if you want to see the crime scene.'

Seemingly from no-where, a stylishly dressed young woman appeared with a clipboard and a pen. At a gesture from Mr Chang, she handed them both to Sherlock.

Lestrade followed Julian Chang into the gallery, leaving Sherlock standing in the hallway on his own. The consulting detective's eyes flicked to his left, and then to ceiling, as he imagined the cutting remarks he would enjoy making.

Then, as curiosity got the better of him, Sherlock scowled, signed the agreement on the clipboard, and followed the others in.

. . .

Gallery B was closed to visitors, explained Mr Chang.

Bizarre and whimsical sculptures sat inside glass cases around the room; this was where collectors could view the pieces before bidding on them at auction.

With a distressed look on his face, the manager led Lestrade and Holmes to the crime scene. Then, without his usual good cheer, Mr Chang wished the two detectives the best of luck, and excused himself.

In the center of the room was an empty display case, approximately one meter cubed in its dimensions; this was the former home of the stolen Damien Hirst. The empty case rested on a white plinth. To its side was the burnt-out hornet's nest; the smaller display case for the hornet's nest was being dusted for fingerprints by two crime scene officers.

'Waste of time.' said Sherlock, under his breath. The white-suited forensic scientists paid him no attention.

'Whoever planted the incendiary device either had a legitimate reason to be here - in which case their prints will contribute little information of value... or they had _no_ legitimate reason to be here - _in which case they will most likely have worn gloves_.' Now one of the crime scene officers looked up. Pulling down her mask, Siobhan Webber glared at Sherlock, before addressing Lestrade. 'We'll need about another hour, sir. Then it's all yours.' The forensic officer pulled up her mask again, and turned back to her work.

The Detective Inspector gave Sherlock a warning look, and crouched down next to the white-suited forensics officers. Speaking in a hushed voice, he attempted to persuade them to go for a break - whilst praying that Holmes wouldn't start telling them off for contaminating the crime scene (something he had done before… on more than one occasion).

'Ten minutes, then… _sir_.' said Siobhan, looking thoroughly put out. She and her partner were standing in front of the open door, about to leave, when an anxious, male voice interrupted them: standing outside the door was Nicholas, the young assistant from downstairs. 'Mr Chang asked me to ask you to please take off your, um...', blushing, Nicholas gestured to the tyvek bodysuits the forensics team wore, 'before going downstairs. Just in case, um, anyone sees..' the young man trailed off nervously, looking down at his shoes.

Siobhan rolled her eyes, and began unzipping the paper-thin, white suit. Her light red hair fell out of the hood as she pulled it off. With an snort of annoyance, her partner followed suit. Before leaving, Siobhan looked from Holmes to Lestrade, and said: 'The people who want this solved certainly have a funny way of showing it.'

Sherlock paid no attention to the departing forensic scientists; he'd taken out out his pocket magnifier and was busy examining the empty display case. 'No.' he said, to no-one in particular, as he snapped the magnifier closed.

'No.' Holmes repeated, in a louder voice. His head whipped around, and he focused his attention on a discrete pile of catalogues in the corner of the room. Covering the distance in three strides, Sherlock grabbed a copy, and began flicking through it - apparently at random.

Narrowing his eyes, Holmes rapidly scanned through the jewellery section. Then his head jerked up, and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. After looking into the distance for a second, he spoke: '_This wasn't just about money._ The Hirst is too well known to be easily fenced… and the value of its raw materials are insignificant, compared to the contents of the jewellery cases downstairs. No-' he said excitedly, '-_someone was sending a message._ But to _whom..._' Sherlock finished speaking, and was reaching for his smartphone, when a noise from the opposite end of the gallery caught his attention.

It was the sound of someone slowly clapping. 'What the - ?' Lestrade asked, spinning around to face the direction the sound was coming from.

The clapping stopped, and there was a small popping noise. A figure stepped out from the shadows at the back of the gallery.

A second little POP bounced off the walls of the otherwise silent room. The stranger was blowing bubbles - purple bubble-gum bubbles.

As the figure walked into the light, Lestrade and Holmes could see her clearly. The woman was in her early thirties, with long, wavy, brown hair and sparkling grey eyes. She was dressed in a fitted grey trouser suit, and there was an emerald pendant hanging from a delicate chain at her throat.

Standing there, wearing a strange little half-smile, was Stephanie Baker, insurance investigator.


End file.
